


Timelines

by scotlandgraveyard



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Canon Era, Gen, Historical, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-14
Updated: 2015-01-14
Packaged: 2018-03-07 12:25:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3173706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scotlandgraveyard/pseuds/scotlandgraveyard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The diaries of three women between 1714 and the present day, documenting the events leading up to and after Gavin MacLeod's unceremonious transition into the 21st century. It begins in 1714 with Florence Bishop, the daughter of a wealthy estate owner, who befriends him and inspires his subsequent escape from the Halkirk Workhouse and ends with Claire Novak who encounters Gavin in a bar in Pontiac, Illinois and discovers they're both on the same quest; find the Winchesters and rebuild their lives.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Timelines

**15th February 1714**

Went to the poorhouse today. My Mama’s been begging me to go with her for weeks now; she’s on the Board of Guardians there. She says that if – god forbid – she should ever pass away, I will have to take her place on the Board.  
The Thurso Poorhouse is a dreadful place, but nicer than most of them; especially the London ones. I hear about all sorts of dreadful things that go on down there (I would hate to live there, even wealthy as we are). It faces east, overlooking the main road out of Halkirk. The poorhouse is a daunting place despite looking ordinary enough from the outside. As for the inside; it is a maze of tall windows, wood floors and whitewashed walls; allowing enough natural light to give it an airy feel. It is almost pleasant. In saying that, the windows may be more of a curse than a blessing; it gets cold in Caithness and I have never seen a fire in the hearth at the poorhouse.  
Upon entering you are met with a staircase leading to the upper floor, and a long hallway on either side. To the right, at the end of the hall are the Master’s lodgings, in the parlor of which Board meetings are held. There is always a fire burning there. The meeting had scarcely gotten underway when there was a scuffle in the hall outside. Not a minute later, Mrs Blackwood, the Matron, bustled in. Muttering her apologies to the master and whispered something in his ear.  
“Well, bring him in then.” He replied aloud.  
A young man of about fifteen – my age - appeared in the doorway. I knew as soon as he poked his head around the corner, bony fingers clutching at the doorframe, that he didn’t belong there. He was such a delicate young thing; the kind of boy who belonged in a parlour with a book and a cup of tea, not in a poorhouse breaking stones for less than enough to eat. He was the kind of boy Pa would have disapproved of; dirty, shabby, with hollow cheeks and clothes that didn’t quite fit right. He was poor; that much would’ve been obvious even if we hadn’t been sitting in the poorhouse.  
“Caught ‘im in the kitchen stealin’ bread, sir.” The Matron said. “Wouldn’t expect anything less of a MacLeod.”  
The Master replied. “Lock ‘im in the cellar.”  
Before I could think any better of it, I cried, “No!”  
The Master looked at me in such a way as I’ve never been looked at before. I felt as if his eyes were burning holes in my skin, my face flushed. But when he spoke it was in a surprisingly calm tone. “Miss Bishop, what seems to be the problem?” You can’t just lock him in the cellar. The poor thing’s starving. Is what I thought, but out loud I said.  
“No, sir.” And sat back down for in my excitement I had half-risen from my seat.  
The Master took the Matron aside for a private discussion in his office, adjoining the parlour. The poor boy hovered in the doorway, glancing awkwardly in my direction; he wasn’t the only one – I noticed Mr Carver of the Board fixing me with a disapproving stare. I dared not look at mama for fear of her own disappointment in me. The Master and the Matron emerged presently and the Matron dragged the poor orphan – for that’s what I assumed him to be – away the same way she had dragged him in. He had not spoken a word. I could barely pay attention to the rest of the meeting for I kept thinking of the boy locked in the cellar. It was probably damp and dark and cold down there. There were probably rats also. Far from helping him out, I felt I might have worsened his plight.

**23 rd February 1714**

I really should try to write more often, but nothing really goes on in Halkirk for me to write about. Something happened today though; I saw the orphan boy again during the board meeting. It wasn’t by chance I ran into him; I did go looking for him. Having excused myself on the premise of a lost handkerchief, I enquired to the first person I saw, a young woman, about where I might find him.  
“Oh, I couldn’t rightly tell you.” she told me. “Lots o’ orphans ‘round ‘ere, miss.” She was English, or at least spoke with an English accent.  
Thanking her, I made my way past the staircase, intending to look in the outbuildings where the men worked, when the cupboard under the stairs creaked open and a voice said. “Psst. Over here.” I gave a start and turned to face the young man whom I was searching for.  
“Heard you was looking for me.” He said.  
“What are you doing in there?”  
“Hiding,” he whispered. “If the Matron finds me she’ll lock me in the cellar again.”  
I was about to point out that hiding in the cupboard was the same as being locked in the cellar, but thought better of it. “What for?” I asked.  
“She’ll find a reason,” he replied. “Hates me, she does.”  
The Matron seemed to me the type of person who hated everyone. “I wanted to apologise for getting you locked in the cellar last week.”  
“Not your fault,” he said, “she would’ve done it anyway.”  
I didn’t know what to say to that, so I changed the subject. “What’s your name?”  
His name was Gavin. Gavin MacLeod. He was fourteen years old, from Canisbay (which is north of Halkirk). I told him I was Florence Bishop of Halkirk and that my mother was a guardian. He scoffed at that.  
“Guardians… fat lot of good they do.”  
“How do you mean?” I asked, but didn’t get an answer for at that moment there was footsteps on the stairs and Gavin retreated back into his cupboard.

 

**25 th February 1714**

Today, I asked Pa what he knew about the MacLeods of Canisbay. He travels a lot for his work, Pa does and I figured he might know a thing or two. He asked me why I wanted to know and I told him about Gavin.  
“You stay away from that boy, you understand?” He answered gruffly and would say no more about it.

**2 nd March 1714**

Board meeting today.  
Nothing new in terms of the poorhouse conditions, but I saw Gavin again. He was eager to talk to me about something, but after what Pa said to me, I politely excused myself and hurried off after mama to the Master’s parlour.  
I wonder what makes Pa so nervous about him?

  
 **4** th March 1714  
  


Pa is away on business and I am itching to know what Gavin was so eager to tell me earlier in the week and determined to find out why Pa disliked him so. I told Ma that I was off to visit William’s grave. He’s my brother; he’s been dead eight years now.  
 I didn’t exactly lie. I did stop by to lay fresh flowers on William’s grave – daisies; the kind he used to pick for me when he went into town – and confided in him the story of Gavin, the poorhouse boy. I could almost hear him laughing, calling me foolish for ever having entertained the notion of befriending such a creature. William was kind, but he was always letting Pa fill his head with nonsense.  
 I don’t think the master was incredibly thrilled to see me, but he couldn’t refuse me entry when I explained to him that my mother had left her best hat behind (a lie I would later regret).  
 Gavin had been put to work sweeping floors in the chapel. I couldn’t imagine why the Chapel would ever be in need of sweeping. I suspected that the Matron was just trying to keep the poor boy out of sight.  
“Miss Bishop,” he greeted me. “I was wondering when you’d be back.”  
I bid him good morning then, without seeming too eager I asked what he had been so desperate to tell me on Wednesday.  
He thought for a minute before saying, “It’s nothing of importance.”  
I didn’t insist.  
After a time, he asked, “Why were you avoiding me?”  
He had stopped sweeping and now stood leaning against the broom handle. Like all workhouse orphans, he’d been through much in his short life and it showed. Gavin looked worn and frail beyond his years. I pitied him.  
“My Pa…” I began. “He thinks you’re a bad influence.”  
Gavin shrugged “I’m poor. No man in his right mind wants his daughter associating with my sort.”  
“I didn’t tell him you lived in the poorhouse. Just that you were from Canisbay.”  
“Reckon he knew my father, then.” Gavin resumed sweeping, eyes to the floor.  
“How so?”  
Gavin laughed mirthlessly. “Never you mind, Flossie Bishop. Ain’t fittin’ for a lady to hear, anyway.”  
Nobody had ever called me ‘Flossie’ before but I didn’t object. I got the feeling this new name was Gavin’s way of showing his affection. I smiled at him.

Despite my best efforts to avoid him, I ran into the Master on the way out. “No luck finding that hat, Miss Bishop?” he enquired, with a nasty edge to his voice.  
I had forgotten the hat! “No, sir.” I told him, trying my best to sound disappointed and hurried away.

 

**9 th March 1714**

Gavin MacLeod is the son of a tailor, Fergus MacLeod. His father was mauled to death by some kind of wild animal last spring. Gavin wasn’t exactly sad to see him go though he still won’t tell me why.  
 This much I learned from during our latest rendezvous at the poorhouse, during which Gavin diligently swept the floors of the still spotless chapel. I also learned that six months ago, after his father’s death, Gavin tried to run away to Edinburgh and was thrown in the workhouse after he was found starving in the streets.  
“I’ll get there one day,” he assured me. “I’ll go to sea; to France or maybe the New World. As far from Canisbay as I can get.”  
“You have to get out first.” I reminded him.  
“I got ways.” He assured me.

**11 th March 1714**

Oh, what a day!  
I was awoken this morning by a sharp tap at the door. Alice, our maid, answered it upon Ma’s request. I dressed quickly and hurried downstairs -we don’t often have visitors here – to find Gavin MacLeod on the doorstep, still in his poorhouse clothes. He must have run away!

I hoped for his sake that he wasn’t asking after me. Ma would have a fit if she discovered that I had befriended an urchin, for that is what he was. I soon discovered, however that he was simply enquiring as to whether there was work to be had about the estate. It was clear that Ma had a good mind to turn him away, but after I implored her to ‘have mercy on the poor wretch’, she set him to work scrubbing the parlour floor; a job that Alice was certainly glad to be rid of.  
 This evening, when Pa arrived home, he was shocked to find that Ma had employed a new servant (‘Alice manages just fine on her own, don’t you, Alice?’), but after Ma assured him (rather halfheartedly) that his assistance was indeed required, Pa said no more about it other than that if he was to stay here, he would sleep in the stables.

 

**15 th April 1714**

Even though it ended over a month ago, winter is hanging onto Halkirk like a bad smell. It is halfway through April and it is still so cold outside that there is frost on the windows. I feel so sorry for Gavin; Pa has him out chopping wood in this frigid air. He knew must be freezing and wanted to bring him something to keep warm but Ma forbade me from ‘disturbing him at his work’.

 Today however, while she was entertaining friends in the parlour, I slipped out into the yard with a warm cup of tea and found him shivering on the back porch with his hands jammed into the pockets of the coat Pa gave him.

 “What are you doing out in this weather, Miss Flossie?” He scolded me, glancing up at the mug of tea in my hand.  
 _So I am ‘_ Miss _Flossie’ now?_ “I bought you a mug of tea. Something to warm you up.”  
I glanced nervously around, hoping Pa hadn’t seen me out here.  
“You’re too kind,” he said, taking the cup and raising it to his lips. “But you need to get back inside. It’s too cold out here.”  
“Winter just doesn’t want to end but Pa says we can expect it to warm up soon, though.” I said, ignoring him.  
“It can’t come soon enough. By the time it warms up, I’ll have enough money saved to get out of here.”  
“You’re leaving?” I asked. Part of me didn’t want Gavin to leave us, but part of me knew he wouldn’t stay.  
“I told you, I was going to Edinburgh when they threw me in the workhouse.”  
“Oh, ok.” I wanted to say something, but I didn’t know what could be said, so I went inside.

**20 th April 1714**

I’ve been on tenterhooks waiting and hoping that Gavin would stay. So far, he has remained here on our estate. I just hope when he does choose to go he’ll say goodbye. Today I asked him if he will write to us when he goes, to which he replied, “I would if I knew how, Miss Flossie.”  
 I suddenly felt rather embarrassed at asking him such a question when I realised where he’d come from; most workhouse inmates are illiterate. Seeing my embarrassment, he promised he would ask someone to write for him.  
 I wish he wouldn’t leave. He is the closest thing to a friend I’ve had since my brother died.

 

 

**1 st May 1714**

I came downstairs this morning to find Alice anxiously awaiting me in the kitchen.  
“Oh, I thought you’d never wake.” She greeted me.  
“Whatever is the matter, Alice?” I replied.  
“He left this morning.” She told me, busying herself making my tea. “Your Pa saw him off. He said to say goodbye.”  
She did not need to tell me who ‘he’ was.

 

**14 th May 1714**

A letter arrived from Edinburgh today, addressed to me. Gavin has arrived safely and is working in a pub in exchange for room and board. I hate to imagine him in such a place, but he is poor and the poor do what they must.  
The letter, he tells me, was written for him by the woman who lives next door to him. Her name is Alice Grant. I am glad he is safe, but I miss him. Here’s to hoping there are more letters to come.


End file.
